Ashes to Ashes
by TheCanuckian
Summary: Finn misses his father and tries to reconnect with him the only way he knows how.  First time writer!  Be kind!


"Hey, Dad."

Finn Hudson sat cross-legged on the floor of his living room, chin perched in his hands. Across from him, sitting lifeless and cold on the worn carpet, was a gold-plated urn with the name "Christopher Hudson" engraved on a raised plaque. Finn tossed a glance over both shoulders even though he knew his mom wouldn't be home for hours. She was on another date with Kurt's dad. Finn closed his eyes and recalled he fight he had with his mom last week.

_'You didn't know him, Finn!'_

Finn opened his eyes and stared at the urn. This was him. This was his dad. This is who his mom was talking about. This is who he didn't know. But he wanted to know his dad. It was a desperate ache that has resided in Finn's heart ever since he knew his family wasn't like everybody else's. His mom had told that his dad was kind-hearted. One of his army buddies that used to drop by occasionally while Finn was growing up said that his dad was brave. Finn found those terms unsatisfactory; they were too broad, too general for him to really understand what they meant or how his dad embodied them.

"Dad, how were you brave?" Finn asked the urn, his face flushed and his eyes locked on the pattern of the carpet. His mom said that she talked to the urn, so he knew it wasn't a stupid thing to do, but at the same time he couldn't help but feel embarrassed and ashamed that he hadn't tried this before. "'Cause Jack… uh, Captain Jasper said that you were brave. He said you died because of it. I would ask him myself but he doesn't really come around anymore and I don't think he likes to talk about it." Finn absentmindedly pulled a loose thread out of the carpet. "He always looked sad when he talked about you. Mom says that men don't like to show their emotions, but I could tell."

Finn glanced up at the urn, but the urn didn't glance back. It sat there, cold and dead and silent. He dropped his head and started looking for shapes in the carpet again. He was silent for several minutes, not entirely sure what he was doing but knowing that he didn't want to stop just yet.

"Mom says she talks to you. I don't really know what she says, 'cause I don't really know what to say either." Finn glanced at the urn again. The sun had begun to set and he could see a vibrant orange hue begin to creep its way over the gold surface. He couldn't explain it, but that colour made the urn seemed more alive, like his dad was somehow responding to the presence of his son. "I got an A on one of my papers." Finn said with sudden excitement. "It was awesome because I never get A's. Mom was so proud that she took me out to Breadstix after. I never thought I was good at History, but… hey Dad, did you like History?"

Despite the glow, the urn stayed silent. Orange, but still cold and dead and silent. Suddenly the glow didn't seem so special and orange was his least favourite colour. Finn tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling before issuing a deep sigh that came all the way from his burdened soul. His dad wasn't here. His ashes were but he might as well be talking to a rock or a goldfish. At least the goldfish would be alive. So why did he find it so hard to say the things he wanted to say?

Finn looked beside him at his dad's recliner and glanced at the only picture of him and his dad on the stand beside it. His face flushed again, but not because he felt silly and not because he felt ashamed for waiting so long to try this. He could feel a deep sadness bursting from his chest as he stared at the picture; a powerful burst of emotion that started coursing through his veins and spreading across his face. His cheeks started to burn with sadness and his eyes were suddenly wet with tears he thought he should have been able to keep at bay.

"I have all these… these _pieces_ of you in my life," Finn finally said, "but none of them fit. I can't put them together to make you a person. I mean, what did you leave me to work with?" Finn asked, anger touching his tone. "All you left me was some old jacket, this… _stupid_ chair and _one_ picture of the two of us. And I don't even look like me!" Finn reached up and brushed at the tears on his wet cheeks. "This picture is the only time that I _know_ you held me and I can't even remember you doing it. I can't remember anything about you because I was a baby and then you were dead."

Finn looked down at his hands. He didn't remember balling them into fists but they suddenly hurt from the tension. He uncurled his hands and stretched his fingers, the angry tension he felt ebbing away with the movement. After a calming breath and a few moments of reflective silence, Finn continued.

"Did you know I don't have any pictures of you in normal people clothes? You married mom in your uniform and you held me in that uniform and then you were dead and they buried you in that uniform. Mom says that I dress like you, but when I look in the mirror I only see me."

"Kurt still smells his mom, you know," Finn said after a brief pause. "Yeah, he said that he lies on the floor and just sniffs her. He remembers her. He remembers how soft she felt and what her lemonade tasted like. He misses those things and he misses her and sometimes he gets sad, but at least he has those memories, you know? I don't even know what kind of bacon you liked."

Finn picked at a scab on his hand with his thumb, glancing up at the urn. The sun had set lower in the sky and the vibrant orange was giving way to the gold Finn was used to. Only this time the gold seemed somehow duller, the shimmer gone. "I don't even know how you died," Finn mumbled, his brows furrowing deeply. "How messed up is that? I asked mom a couple times and she just said that you died fighting. Jack just said you died being brave." Finn looked back at the photo of his dad cradling him in the rough fabric of his uniform then dropped his eyes to the carpet again. "I know sometimes my grades aren't the best, but I'm not stupid. I know how people die in war. They get shot or they blow up or they get hit with shrapnel. Every time I play Call of Duty and I died I wonder if it's how you died. I know mom's just trying to protect me or whatever, but I wish I knew so I could stop thinking about it. I hope it didn't hurt." Finn trailed off and found himself lost in thoughtful silence for a few moments before continuing. "Everybody always takes so long to die in the movies. They always have enough time to give something away or say something or think about something before they die." Finn chewed on his lip, his eyes still downcast. "Did you think of home? Of Mom? Of me? Or, maybe, you didn't have any last thoughts at all and it was just over. I don't know which is better."

Finn looked back to the cold metal of the urn that held the cold ashes of his father and couldn't help but wonder if his dad had known him long enough to have loved him like a father should.

"I just… I don't know how I can miss you so bad when I never knew who you were."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This is my first attempt at writing any sort of fic. In fact, this is my first attempt at writing anything other than essays on the Enclosure Movement of the 18th Century. Any constructive criticism/reviews/suggestions would be greatly appreciated. I hope you liked it.


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